


The Process of Ripening

by QuickYoke



Series: Coffee and Tea [1]
Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: F/F, First Kiss, started off fluffy and ended not so fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 16:37:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickYoke/pseuds/QuickYoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peggy Carter is a master of deflection. A quick one-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Process of Ripening

**Author's Note:**

> I am such Cartinelli trash. How did this happen so quickly?

 

Angie bruised easier than any other person she knew. She picked up how to be a master with concealer from a young age. Her mother always worried what the neighbours might think when Angie showed up with scuffed knees and a torn summery dress, long-legged as a colt in her teenage years. Of course in later years the skill was useful for so many other things as well: Broadway auditions, for instance. Also from her string of boys who didn't realise how easily a nip to neck might bloom – not to mention Overly Enthusiastic Sally from forever and a year ago in New Hampshire that one summer. Boy, if the camp manager had seen _those_ bruises on her neck, she'd have been tossed out on her rear and never heard the end of it from Mother Dearest.

Still she often forgot that not everybody knew this little fact about her.

Peggy's eyes narrowed to steely points one night at the diner. It happened sometimes, that look. Angie could never tell when it would occur. It was the same look she wore when the Captain America show aired on the radio, or when she gazed off into space, contemplative, her face like a cold distant mask.

“What happened?” It was a question but it sounded like a demand. Peggy's gaze pinned Angie to the spot.

Angie froze in place as she was about to pour more coffee into Peggy's mug, “I – what?”

Peggy's arm jerked as though she were about to reach out, but instead she nodded at Angie's arm, stiff, “Those bruises.”

Blinking in confusion, Angie let out a relieved huff of laughter, “Oh, that!” she waved dismissively, “Could be from any number of things. Knocked my elbow against a table or something, who knows? I bruise easier than an over-ripe peach.”

Something flickered behind Peggy's eyes, and for a fleeting moment Angie thought she wouldn't believe her. But then a taut smile pulled at Peggy's mouth, finally relaxing into one of genuine relief, “I'm,” she cleared her throat, leaning back in the seat of her booth, “sorry. I just- That was stupid of me. I shouldn't presume-”

“Don't be silly,” Angie poured the coffee, “I think you're sweet.”

A sound came from Peggy that sounded suspiciously like a snort, from low in the back of her throat and derisive, “I am  _not_ sweet.”

“Keep telling yourself that, English,” Angie shot back.

As though to spite her, Peggy took an overly large bite of pie and glared. At that Angie just choked back a laugh. Peggy was the most graceless eater she had ever seen. Or perhaps, Angie thought, it was just the striking contrast. She was normally so poised, so coiffed, so very  _English_ , but when she stuck food in her mouth it bulged to one cheek and her normally clipped vowels were suddenly drawled through a half-chewed cranberry scone or a whole quarter of a Belgian waffle.

Angie was about to flounce off in victory when from the corner of her eye she spotted a car through the rain-slashed windows, “Your beau is here for you again.”

“He's not my beau.” Peggy began, words still rolling full with pie “He's my-”

She arched a brow at Peggy over her shoulder, “Don't give me that colleague crap again.”

Peggy rolled her eyes, and finally swallowed her mouthful. When she spoke again, her accent was crisp, every consonant resonant and enunciated, “Colleagues I only associate with because it's demanded of me. Others I spend time with because I enjoy their company.” She gave a lazy pointed flick of her eyes – up and down – and Angie felt her cheeks flush.

Triumphant, Peggy smirked – actually  _smirked_ – then proceeded to cram what remained of the pie into her mouth before snatching up her briefcase and coat. She strode to the door, heels clacking on the linoleum.

“You forgot to tip!” hand on her hip, Angie called after her as the door closed behind her.

“I'll tip you back at the apartment!” Peggy's voice came muted through the glass. Then she rushed through the rain, clambered into the fancy car, and was gone.

The rest of the night was uneventful, as far as Angie's nights went. She expertly fended off a few wandering hands, dodged the cook's spatula and glowers, and scraped together exactly seventy two cents in tips. It was with a heavy sigh that she turned in for the night, returning the The Griffith wet from the downpour, even her stockings splashed up to the knee from passing cars.

On her way to her own room she didn't give a second thought to why the light in Peggy's room wasn't on. She was far too intent on the luxury of peeling off all her sopping clothes and slipping into a warm cotton robe. Holding all the wet items aloft – hair frizzy but overall feeling much more human – Angie marched to the common washing room, where she carefully pinned her clothes up on a line to dry.

It was on her way back for the second time that she noticed a sliver of light flicked on beneath Peggy's door as she passed by. Stopping with a smile, Angie rapped gently at the door before opening it, “I didn't even see you get back! You still owe me that tip, English. Don't think I haven't forgotten-”

She stopped dead in her tracks, and every breath in her body stuttered to a halt.

Peggy stood near the open window, curtains fluttering, water trailing from the sill to the pool at her feet. Gone were her usual stylish pumps and clothes, and in their stead a pair of thick-soled combat boots and a rain-blackened one-piece, like something one would find down at the mechanic's shop, durable. Even her hair was gathered at the base of her neck in a tail, slicked back, though a few loose wet tendrils stuck to her cheek and neck like serpents. She was bleeding. Cuts marred her arms, a few on her legs – a particularly deep gash wept from her shoulder, dripping in streaks towards her fingertips. She had that look on her face again, sharp, and focused, and dangerous, eyes dark and piercing as knives.

When she spoke her voice was low, “Close the door.”

“Peggy, are you alright?” Angie began, “What happened? Who-?”

She took a step forward, but before she could venture further into the room Peggy moved and was suddenly there. The door closed not with a slam but with a soft controlled click. Nobody from outside would have thought anything amiss. Inside, however, Angie felt crowded. The entryway into the apartment felt narrower. Peggy seemed to inhabit a larger space, her form coiled and tense, all economic power, no ounce out of place or misused.

“You should really wait for your knocking to be answered before entering someone's room.” Peggy's face was clean of any trace of make-up, yet the faintest hint of lipstick stained her lips like a wound.

“You're bleeding like a stuck pig, and all you want to talk about is closing doors and knocking? We should be calling-” Angie started to say, but was cut off.

Peggy's mouth was cool as a draught of beer in a Carolina summer. Angie barely had time to gasp in surprise before she was pressed up against the opposing wall, Peggy's hands wandering to the small of her back and the narrow slope of her waist, wet clothes seeping into her cotton robe. A bloody smear wandered with her fingertips, sure, and firm, and far more calloused than Angie would have originally thought. When they parted they were breathing heavily, and Angie's robe was askew, the silky slip beneath rumpled and rucked up against her thighs. That look remained, though Peggy's eyes had softened around the corners, brows still slanted, her gaze intense.

“You should go,” she said, unclenching her hand from the belt around Angie's waist, “We'll talk in the morning.”

“Right. Ok. Yes,” Angie nodded too many times, her voice as shaky as her legs, “What about you? Are you going to-?”

Peggy stood back, gathering her composure far more quickly, “I'll be fine.”

Angie at least had the sense of mind to quickly whip her robe inside-out before slipping into the hallway. Her hands trembled as she held it closed against her chest, praying that nobody would pass her in the short space between their rooms. Once safely sequestered away in her own room, she leaned against the closed and locked door with a long ragged sigh. She pinched the bridge of her nose and swallowed past an obstruction in her throat.

Usually at this point she would already be feeling the bruises blooming beneath her skin after such an interaction, but this time felt different. Somehow Angie was sure that when the dawn crested over the horizon and through the tangle of New York buildings, when she was gearing up and girding herself to finally squeeze some answers out of Peggy – answers she knew would be far from straightforward – she wouldn't be able to find a single blemish.

 


End file.
